A Swig of Veuve Clicquot
by LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: In which Greg and John get through the majority of the Diogenes Club's liquor cabinet, Anthea is called and Mycroft is being sneaky. A Mystrade fic. Warning: Swears and Lestrade's drunken grammar.


**A/N: Written for Rupert Grave's 49th Birthday :) Happy Birthday you beautiful man!**

**A Swig of Veuve Clicquot**

Two crystal champagne flutes chinked together, the sharp sound echoing from one wall of the empty lounge of the Diogenes Club to the other.

"Happy birthday old man!"

Greg grinned and sipped from at his Veuve Clicquot, trying to work out exactly what difference the four-hundred quid made in comparison with the Lanson Black which only came out at New Year. Maybe knowledge would come from practise... "Cheers, John. At least I've got someone to share it with." The slight bitterness mixed instantly with guilt at his own ingratitude – it wasn't Mycroft's fault the last minute organisation for the Olympics happened to coincide with his birthday, nor was it his fault that the Americans happened to have picked that week to be particularly bothersome, and he _had _gone to a great deal of effort to make sure that the Diogenes would be devoid of its usual sombre inhabitants that evening so that Greg and John could lounge around eating _Dominos_ and partaking in the extensive collection of fine spirits without having to adhere to the ridiculous vow of silence...

All in all, Greg felt like an absolute dick that he couldn't shake the feeling that he would've preferred a night in on the sofa watching _Sky_.

"Penny for them?"

John's voice brought Lestrade abruptly out of his reverie. Greg looked up, "Hmm?"

"Forty-nine's the new twenty-five, don't you know?" the doctor teased gently, setting his own glass down upon this polished side-table. "No need to look so morose."

Shaking his head, Greg chuckled softly. "Sorry, sorry. It's just me being daft. Give us some more of that booze and I'll perk up in a sec."

John leaned forward and passed over the bottle. "_Booze_? If Mycroft heard you, you'd be sleeping on the sofa."

Lestrade considered the yellow label with narrowed eyes, muttering, "Might as fucking well be..." before tilting the neck and swigging the expensive liquid straight from the bottle. "Don't judge me," he added, feeling John eyeing him sceptically. "If this is the most intimacy I'm going to get from my boyfriend, I might as well enjoy it."

"You sure he's not got anything planned for tomorrow?"

"Yup. A hundred percent. He's been on that bloody phone every moment for the last fortnight talking foreign policy and embassy and shit, and now something's going wrong with the Americans...Well," he gave a lopsided shrug, "I haven't got a hope in hell, have I? I mean, as far as Mycroft Homes' priorities go at the moment, I'm practically nonexistent. Which is fine," Greg assured John, who was beginning to look incredibly uncomfortable. "Like, I knew what I was getting into, and I can be pretty much the same sometimes. It's just that... well, it's just a bit shit when it's on my birthday, you know?"

"Unfortunately," said John sagely, staring into the depths of his glass which was now void of alcohol, "the world has to keep turning."

"Yeah, and I just _had_ to fall for the bloke the turns it."

"It's the way."

"_Fuck_ the way," Lestrade spat viciously. "Glenmoranjie?"

* * *

_**Gregory: **_I drunk the bubbly out the bottle just to spite you

_Today, 21:35_

_**Mycroft: **_Pleb ;) Don't be cross, I'd much rather be with you tonight but it can't be helped. Will make it up to you ASAP, love x

_Today, 21:47_

_**Gregory: **_dont beleve you, i know your married to you work. its fine johns good company anyway. weve found the posh wisky. hope none of your frends are thursty tomorow x

_Today, 22:22_

_**Mycroft: **_Don't walk home, ring Anthea when you want to leave. Hope you're having fun, I'm sorry I couldn't be there. I love you x

_Today, 22:25_

_**Gregory: **_your missing out were making cocktails out of glemoranjy vodka cwantro and lemonchello and then were gonna play nevr have i evr cost thats what you do at partys and then were going to do sliding down the bansters and then karyoki you shoud come ovr xxxx

_Today, 23:14_

_**Gregory:**_ wydyuo txt jon not me? do I hav to wory? also you dont cos evrythings good nd were havng a realy good time nd im not mising you atal cos your busy nd Im busy so tsall good dnt txt jon txt me love yuo xxxxxxx

_Today, 23:32_

_**Mycroft:**_ I'll see you soon, get home safely. There's a car outside ready for you when you need it. Love you x

_Today, 23:37_

_**Gregory:**_ not comin hom gnna stay her with jon yull be at wrk tmrw nywy so no pont cmng hme miht go sty at jons for a bt til yuv stpd beng king.

_Today, 00:18_

_**Gregory:**_

_Today, 00:19_

_**Mycroft**_**: **Happy Birthday, Drunken Fool 3 Come home soon x

_Today, 00:21_

_**Gregory: **_hipcrit

_Today, 00:30_

_**Gregory: **_*hyyppycrit

_Today, 00:31_

_**Gregory: **_fuk it jons gon hm wthout me nd anthes lokn cros

_Today, 00:39_

_**Mycroft:**_See you in five minutes, Gregory x

* * *

According to John Watson, forty-nine was the new twenty-five. According to his excruciating hangover, forty-nine was the new ninety-three. In all honesty, Greg had no bloody idea what was going on – the last thing discernible amongst the blur that was last night was John having a lengthy philosophical argument with a bottle opener before throwing it aside in a fit of intellectual frustration and attempting to wrench the offending cork out with his teeth. Greg wished fervently that he could remember the outcome of the argument – he had a feeling that John was _not_ victorious.

With a wince, Lestrade rolled over onto his side, pulling the duvet up over his head; there had been amaretto, the familiar just above the bridge of his nose told him with a smirk. There was vodka behind his ears, martini in his throat and an unrecognisable cocktail of who-knows-what brewing in his head. Thank god for the heavy velvet curtains that Mycroft had insisted upon.

Mycroft...

Lestrade was under the distinct impression that he had made a complete tit out of himself as far as Mycroft was concerned. He could vaguely recall feeling exceptionally put out by his absence which must have manifested itself in some hideous form...

_Bugger_.

The depressant properties of last night's alcohol consumption blended with the knowledge that he would be spending his birthday not only alone but in disgrace to create what was possibly the worst hangover Greg had ever experienced. Well, apart from the morning after his stag do twenty odd years ago, but that was best forgotten.

With a half-sigh, half-groan, Lestrade flung out an arm in the general direction of the bedside table, groping blindly for his phone in the hope it would provide at least some answers to the enigma that was last night. It connected rather violently with someone's face.

"Ow!"

Greg quickly withdrew the arm, using it to rub away the sleep from his eyes so that he could identify the intruder, who was swiftly revealed _not_ to be an intruder after all.

Lestrade blinked several times and, trying to decide whether or not he was still in an alcohol-induced dream, poked the face again.

Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow. "Would you mind ceasing that, please, Gregory?"

"Admit that you're a mirage and I will."

Chuckling softly, Mycroft twisted around so they were nose to nose. "Are you surprised?" he asked with a sly, Sherlockian smile.

Greg considered this for a moment. "Yes," he decided. "I mean, I know that the world is supposed to end this year, but I didn't think it would fit so neatly with my birthday."

Mycroft planted a kiss on the tip of his nose and said, "The world has been put on hold for the day."

"The _whole_ day?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"The _whole_ day," Mycroft confirmed. "I've even turned my phone off. Even if the whole economy was to collapse, or Russia declared the next war-"

"What about the Olympics?"

"Fuck the Olympics," said Mycroft tenderly. "I've spent the majority of the last couple of weeks ensuring that there would be no national disaster today. The Olympics are at the very bottom of my priorities, I assure you."

Greg was still struggling to get his aching head around this new twist in the balance of the universe. With a grimace, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and shuffled down beneath the covers. "The Americans-

"Have promised to behave themselves for the next..." Mycroft checked his watch with a frown, "twenty-one hours." He propped himself up with an elbow and regarded the large lump beneath their duvet. "Better make the most of your birthday present before it's used up, Gregory."

Lestrade decided this was a pretty good proposition.

"Wait," Mycroft held up a finger, suddenly serious, stopping Greg mid-pounce. "You must promise me something first."

With a frustrated groan, Lestrade fell back against his pillows. "_Anything_."

"Never," Mycroft climbed on top of him, pinning him down, "_ever_," there was a malevolent glint in his eye as he leaned down to press his lips to the outer shell of the detective inspector's ear, "drink Veuve Clicquot from the bottle again."

As he felt the teasingly soft pressure of Mycroft's teeth against his lobe, Lestrade was quite sure that he would have agreed to anything asked of him without a murmur. As it was, he gave a faint, "Mnyah mnyah," before relinquishing the ache of the night before for a much more desirable one.


End file.
